At Deerchase, the house was lighted with wax candles as soon as it was dark. The grounds were illuminated with Chinese lanterns, a luxury never before witnessed in those parts; there was to be a constant exhibition of fireworks on the river, and a band of musicians played in the grounds, and another band in the great hall, which was cleared for dancing. A ball upon a plantation was always as much enjoyed by the negroes as the white people, and every negro at Deerchase was out in his or her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, some to help in the house, some at the stables to take care of the carriages and horses, and others who merely enjoyed looking on with intense though regulated delight. Bob Skinny was simply immense, and fairly outshone Mrs. Shapleigh in the number and variety of his rings, chains, and breastpins. He stood on the square portico that faced the drive, with his arms magnificently folded, his “fluke” under his arm, and occasionally, with an air of tremendous solemnity, he consulted a huge silver watch which didn’t run, that Skelton had given him. Bob arrogated to himself the honour of receiving the guests as they alighted, while Skelton occupied a comparatively unimportant position in the hall. Bulstrode was prowling about, completely subdued by his evening coat and a pair of large white kid gloves. Lewis Pryor, full of delighted excitement, was surveying his handsome boyish figure in the glass over the hall chimney-piece, as Skelton descended the stairs, putting on his gloves. “How do you like yourself?” he called out. Lewis blushed furiously and laughed. Meanwhile Bob Skinny and the “hade man” of the musicians were having a lively verbal scrimmage in the porch. “Here you is!” remarked Bob, with an air of lofty patronage, as the leader of the band, a red-faced German, accompanied by his satellites, appeared on the porch with their instruments. “Now, I gwi’ show you how ter play de fluke, an’ I gwi’ play wid you, arter I done git th’u wid receivin’ de cump’ny. I kin play de fluke better’n anybody you ever see, but I ain’ proud; I doan’ min’ playin’ wid you.” “You holt your tongue,” calmly remarked the German. “I got no dime der drifle.” “Look a-here,” answered Bob Skinny severely, “doan’ you go fer to wex me; doan’ you wex nor aggrawate me. I done been ter Germany, and ’tain’t nobody d’yar ’cept po’ white trash. _You’s_ de hade man o’ dem fiddlers, an’ _I_ is de hade man o’ Mr. Richard Skelton, dat’s got mo’ lan’ an’ niggers en all de wuffless Germans put toge’rr.” Bob’s remarks were cut short untimely by Skelton’s appearing in the porch, when he became as mute as an oyster. Meanwhile the musicians had carried their instruments in, and began tuning up. Bob, however, could not refrain from tuning and blowing on his “fluke” at the most critical time, when his enemy, the German, was trying to give the pitch.